


when the daylight comes (you'll be on your own)

by a_splash_of_stucky



Series: By Morning Light [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Artist!Reader, Missions, Multi, Prompt Fic, domestic life, lonely mornings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-03
Updated: 2018-01-03
Packaged: 2019-02-27 19:51:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,009
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13255431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_splash_of_stucky/pseuds/a_splash_of_stucky
Summary: Midnight missions leave you lonely in the mornings





	when the daylight comes (you'll be on your own)

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a writing challenge on Tumblr, using the prompt 'Dawn'. This series (By Morning Light) is essentially a series of related Stucky x Reader oneshots, all set in the same 'verse. I think you can read each one as its own standalone fic, but for best effect, read all of them together.
> 
> Series title is a lyric from 'Only The Horses' by the Scissor Sisters, and title for this work is an adapted lyric from 'Daylight' by Maroon 5.

You stir in your sleep, your hand reaching out to the right with the intent of pulling Bucky closer to you, hoping that you can leech off some of his body heat. The chill that is currently ghosting over your skin is probably what awoke you in the first place; your twin furnaces seem to have disappeared from your sides.

Your lips contort into a frown when your fingers close on nothing but empty sheets. How strange.

You roll onto your other side — and pause, stunned by the discovery of the fact that you are actually  _able_ to roll over. Normally, Steve is curled up around your back, arm slung around your waist and nose pressed into the crook of your neck. If you ever turned over in your sleep, you usually end up with your face smushed between pecs of steel. As wonderful as it is being able to sleep with two solid walls of muscle on either side of you, the fact that the boys usually cling to you like octopi to a rock just makes their absence that much more noticeable.

With a muted yawn, you stretch out your arms and do some half-assed impression of making a snow-angel, flapping your arms and legs around in the sheets to confirm that yep, you’re most certainly alone in the bed. Reluctantly, your crack open your sleep-encrusted eyelids, in order to survey the room.

It’s still fairly dark out, the morning in that weird transition hour between night and dawn, where the entire world seems to take on a slightly purplish quality. The digital clock on the nightstand tells you that it’s a quarter past six in the morning. Your drag your eyes away from the bright red lights of the clock’s display and slowly track them over the rest of the room. You note the half-shut cupboards, the pulled-out drawers and the clothes strewn haphazardly on the floor, all indicating that the boys left in haste. There’s no denying the evidence presented by the whole scene — you’re forced to accept the sad reality that Steve and Bucky are gone.

Midnight missions happen all the time, in this household. It’s not unusual for one, or both of them to get called out in the middle of the night. Given their line of work, you figure it’s expected that Steve and Bucky need to keep odd hours. World-saving waits for no one, so you’ve come to embrace the fact the the boys could be dragged away at the drop of a hat, with no prior warning, whisked off to some far-flung part of the world to kick some bad-guy butt.

If you had to guess, you’d probably say that nights like these happen at least once every couple of weeks. With that level of frequency, mornings like these are not uncommon — morning where you wake up shivering and alone in a bed that feels far too big. With that level of frequency, a part of you thinks that you should be used to the programme by now, that your body should  _know_ what has happened and should therefore  _not_ freak out about it. Sure, Bucky and Steve are off risking their lives to make the world a safer place, but they always come back to you — battered, usually bloodied, though always whole.

You resent these mornings, nonetheless.

Exhaling a harsh breath through your nose, you roll over onto your stomach and bury your face into Bucky’s pillow, greedily inhaling the scent that clings to the brushed cotton. You miss your boys. Perhaps it’s your imagination, but you swear that you can feel the ache of loneliness and longing in your heart, throbbing dully with every heartbeat. You’d been looking forward to spending a relaxing weekend with them, but that looks to not be the case.

 _Way to go, bad guys_ , you gripe,  _thanks for ruining my weekend plans._

The memory of the first time a morning like this happened starts playing in your ming like a terrible grainy film, one that you’d much rather  _not_ watch.

Bucky and Steve had left without so much as a note explaining why they were gone, or where they were going, or when they’d be coming back. You can vividly remember the way the terror had gripped at your heart, the way the panic had nauseated you as it swirled in your stomach. You remember grabbing your phone and dialling their numbers. You’d tried calling them a dozen times. You’d clutched the phone to your ear with a trembling hand, waiting with bated breath as the phone rang and rang and  _rang,_ without being picked up.

You remember praying to the heavens above for a miracle, hoping to develop some sort of telepathic connection with Steve or Bucky, just to know that they were  _alive_. God, you must have left them at least six voicemails.  _Each_. You don’t want to think about how hysterical you must have sounded, how close to the verge of tears your voice must have been. When you finally realised that calling Bucky and Steve would get you nowhere, you’d tried everyone else on your contact list. You tried getting ahold of Sam, you tried getting ahold of Nat, of Wanda, of Tony, of Clint — hell, you even tried to call  _Pepper_ , all to no avail.

You’d worked yourself into an anxious frenzy, unable to shake the fear lingering in the back of your head for the rest of the day. You were hardly able to sit still for more than a couple of seconds. You’d known that the best thing for you to do was to just keep calm, to just have faith in the knowledge that Steve and Bucky have been doing this for a lot longer than they’ve known you and that they know how to handle themselves. But—there’s just some things that girlfriends do. Being worried sick when their boyfriends vanish into thin air is one of them.

Now, at least, you’re proud to say that you can handle Steve and Bucky’s midnight disappearances with a lot more composure. After six months of living together, you’ve finally taught yourself to reign in the all-consuming panic that threatens to overwhelm your mind and send it spiralling into the pits of despair. You never seem to be as productive as you normally are, not can you quite shake off the nervous energy hovering around you like a cloud of mist, but it’s a definite improvement to how you used to act.

Having exhausted your contacts list, you’d resorted to booting up your laptop and doing a Google search for their names, hoping that you’d read about them in the news, or something. The relief that spread through your veins as your eyes skimmed over an article detailing a sighting of the Avengers in Belarus was unlike anything you’ve ever felt before — you’d felt as if a mountain-sized boulder had been lifted off your lungs, allowing you to breathe again. You remember patting your chest, right over your heart, as if to reassure the madly-beating muscle that yes, Bucky and Steve were still alive.

As much as you’d promised yourself that you’d be giving them a real chewing over the minute they stepped through the front door, that’s not exactly how the events played out in real life. In reality, things panned out a little something like this: a haggard-looking Steve and an equally exhausted Bucky stumble through the door, a string of apologies on their lips. You take one look at them, one glance at the truly forlorn look on their faces and feel something in your heart just  _give way_. You promptly burst into tears — of joy? Relief? Anger? Who knows? — and run into their outstretched arms, clinging to them in a viciously tight embrace, as if to ensure that they could never leave you, ever again.

The three of you have made some changes, after that.

There’s a protocol, now. The boys will  _always_ leave you a note if they have to go, putting it somewhere obvious so that it’s easy for you to spot. Initially, they’d tried waking you up to let you know that they were leaving, but that plan fell through because you sleep like the dead and are just as difficult to reawaken.

Now, you push yourself up onto your elbows, glancing around the dimly-lit room in search of their note. A flash of yellow in the corner of your eye catches your attention. You lean over and pluck the square post-it note from where it’s stuck on the nightstand on Steve’s side of the bed. You narrow your eyes, turning the slip of paper this way and that, trying to decipher Steve’s unreadable chicken scratch. With a sigh, you sit up straighter, intending to flick on the bedside lamp to shed some light on the subject — you laugh humourlessly at your own pun. Just as you’re reach over to thumb the switch on the wall, a folded piece of white paper crammed underneath the base of the lamp draws your gaze.

Eagerly, you snatch up the note and flatten out the paper. The inside is covered in Bucky’s loopy cursive script, scrawled across the scrap of paper in green ink.

 _Hey doll_ , it reads _, we left just after 12AM, should be back in time to take you out for brunch. Don’t worry too much. <3 S and B_

Well. It’s something, at least. With any luck, they’ll stick to their promise and be back in time for the three of you to go out for pancakes, maybe take a walk in the park. If all goes to plan — and that, to be fair, is a pretty big if — you’ll be able to make the most out of the rest of the weekend.

It is with this thought in mind that you swing your legs off the bed and pad over to the bathroom, to go through your morning routine of brushing your teeth, washing your face and going to the toilet. After, just as you’re about to flick off the light switch and head down for some breakfast, your eyes fall on the laundry hamper in the corner of the bathroom. Specifically, your gaze lands on Steve’s white t-shirt lying on the top of the pile.

You don’t hesitate to cross over to it, pulling your own night-shirt over your head as you go. That gets tossed into the pile of dirty clothes, and you tug Steve’s shirt on its place. For good measure, you rummage around in the hamper, clicking your tongue triumphantly when you pull out Bucky’s navy blue zip-up. That gets pulled on too.

Despite the fact that it’s not even seven in the morning, you’re feeling wide awake and know that you’re unlikely to be falling back asleep anytime soon. So, as your gaze roams over the disheveled mess that is your bedroom, you decide to take advantage of your early start to the day by getting some housework done. You make the bed and put away the junk cluttering the surface of your dresser, before gathering up all the clothes on the floor and dumping them into the laundry hamper, ready to be washed with Steve and Bucky’s gear once they get back.

It’s nice, working with their clothes on, if only because it means that you’ve enshrouded yourself in their comforting scents. You turn your face and press your nose into the shoulder of the zip-up, breathing in that musky, spicy smell of Bucky that clings to the material. You push the garment to the side, exposing the t-shirt underneath so that you can get a quick whiff of Steve’s fresher, slightly sharper scent.

Like this, it’s easy to pretend that you’re not alone, easier for you to imagine that your boys are right there next to you, bickering between themselves as they attempt to distract you from your chores. The thought brings a smile to your lips.

Once the bedroom is as clean as you can make it, you head downstairs, not bothering to turn on the lights as you go, because you enjoy observing the way the rising sun tinges your home in shades of pink and orange. Your fingers itch for some pencils and a sketchbook to capture the tranquil scene.

You make your way through the rest of the house, restlessly tidying away things that are out of place. You find yourself rearranging some framed photos of your family and putting the packages that you received yesterday into your art room, to be opened some other time. There’s only so much cleaning you can do, however, before there is literally nothing left to be cleaned. With a resigned sigh, you amble into the kitchen and put the kettle on, then pull out your favourite Avengers mug and drop a tea bag into it.

Once it’s ready, you carry your scalding hot mug of tea and a packet of chocolate cookies into the living room. Today feels like a Netflix morning, you decide, as you settle down in the corner of the L-shaped couch and bring up the latest episode of the show you’re watching. The sunlight is beginning to stream in through the windows properly now, casting everything in a soft, hazy glow.

As the opening credits roll, you decide to make a quick dash to your art space to grab the book you’re currently reading, in case you want to occupy your mind in other ways, as well as your laptop, in case you — heaven forbid — decide to actually be  _productive_ on a Saturday morning.

Since your mind is rather preoccupied, you wind up not paying that much attention to the drama playing out on screen. The volume’s turned down low, enabling your brain to push the sounds into the back of your head. Your mind wanders and ends up waltzing down memory lane.

———————————

You work as an illustrator and freelance artist. Two and a half years ago, you’d been invited to create some original pieces for a local art gallery, who intended to auction them off and give part of the proceedings to the local children’s hospital. You’d met Steve and Bucky on the night of the exhibition launch and your relationship had taken off from there.  

Steve had made the first move. He’d come over to you, an embarrassed flush on his face when he started gushing about your work, eyes twinkling with excitement as he geeked out over your colour and compositional choices. Bucky, standing by his side, had been equally charming, not letting his lack of art-knowledge hinder him from joining in on the conversation. There’s a candid picture of the three of you from that night that is pinned to the wall above your work-station. The photographer had managed to catch you all just as you burst out into laughter. Steve’s hand is resting on your upper arm, Bucky’s hand is clapping on Steve’s right shoulder, and all your faces are alight with joy. Your heart never fails to melt whenever you set eyes on it.

Afterwards, they took you out for coffee at a ridiculously expensive downtown cafe. The three of you had stayed in there and chatted well beyond closing time — it seems that shop owners make exceptions for Captain America. From the get-go, it’d been so  _easy_ to talk to them. You don’t know of any other people who have made you laugh as much, or as hard, in that amount of time. The three of you clicked, instantly, as if you’d always known each other.

By the time Steve and Bucky were ushering you into the cab they’d called, the three of you had already established a date for a get-together at your house, so that Steve could come over and ogle the rest of your work, and so that Bucky could come over and impress you with his potato salad.

Cue a year or so of you spending a hell of a lot of time with Steve and Bucky. Well, as much time as you can with the two of them were jetting off on missions every week, at least. Slowly but surely, you found yourself falling for them both. It wasn’t something that you were conscious of, really, it’s just — one evening, you sat down to have dinner by yourself in front of the couch and found yourself wishing that Bucky and Steve were there to keep you company. And, the more you thought about it, the more you realised that you wanted their company every night — and every day too, if that was possible.

Then, there was a brief period of awkwardness, during which you fretted and lamented over your indecisive heart. Your every waking hour was spent wondering how on  _earth_  you were going to broach this subject with them. But, before you could even formulate a game plan, before you could even  _begin_  to prepare yourself for the heartache that would inevitably come with you having to end your friendship with them, the boys had approached you and asked you out on a proper date. Emphasis on the plural, there.

And it’s been…well, it’s been a lot of things, since then. Stressful, exhilarating, enjoyable — pretty much every descriptor under the sun. You’ve been dating for a year and a half now, and six months ago, the boys had moved into your two-storey studio loft. They had, of course, invited you to come and live with them the tower, but you couldn’t bear the thought of having to pack up your meticulously organised work-station, only to have to establish a whole new system of organisation. And besides, the view of the city from your window is pretty spectacular.

Was it scary for you to finally meet the rest of the team?

Hell yeah, it was. Downright terrifying, would perhaps be more of an accurate answer. But, questionable first impressions and poorly-concealed death-threats aside (mostly directed at Steve and Bucky on your behalf, as opposed to the reverse, thankfully), the rest of the Avengers have come to accept you as part of their family. You are the one person who brings a sense of normalcy into their otherwise hellishly chaotic home.

Your relationship went public about a couple of months before the three of you moved in together, after the three of you had gotten papped when you’d gone out grocery shopping. There was a lot of media coverage, mostly in the form of disgruntled grumbling, of your relationship in the following weeks. Steve’s image took most of the heat; as a national icon, Captain America is, by default, supposed to stand for national ideals. Apparently — and you’ve got no idea what idiot decided to institute this as fact — America’s national ideals are  _not_ , in fact, bisexuality and polyamorous relationships. You’d also gotten your fair share of death threats during the initial media frenzy, but it’s the Avengers we’re talking about, at the end of the day. No mere civilian is stupid enough to get on their bad side. And besides, the PR and legal teams are great at keeping your private life under lock and key.

———————————

You end up lazing around on the couch, drifting in and out of sleep for the next couple of hours. You’re startled by the sound of a key jingling in the lock, followed by the front door creaking open and heavy boots thudding inside. You sit up, rubbing the sleep out of your eyes with one hand and stretching out the kink in your shoulder with the other. A quick glance at the clock on the wall lets you know that it’s half past nine in the morning.

Steve is limping into the living room just as you turn around. Your give him a quick once-over, taking in the bruising on his cheek and the way he holds his body, indicating that he’s probably taken a pretty bad hit to the right side of his ribs. His helmet is held in one hand, his shield in the other. Bucky strides in after him, tac jacket unzipped and hair freed from the bun he keeps it in when he’s out on a mission. There’re butterfly bandages above his eye and a cut on his lip, but besides that, he doesn’t look too bad.

“Hey,” you murmur, twisting around properly now, resting your elbows on the back of the couch as you push yourself up onto your knees. Bucky is the first to reach you, his hands cupping your face and tilting it upwards as he leans in to capture your lips in a fierce kiss. You sigh contentedly, feeling the tension draining out of your body with each surge of Bucky’s lips against your own. You sense Steve sauntering over to the two of you, dropping his helmet onto the couch beside you so that he can thread his fingers through your hair. The last vestiges of anxiety leave your body at the gesture, and you can’t help but let out an approving moan as Steve’s fingertips dig into the base of your skull.

When you and Bucky finally break away, you find that the two of them have smiles on their faces, contented looks in their eyes. Steve chuckles softly when he notices your outfit, stroking your hair fondly.

“Missed us that much?” he asks quietly.

“You got no idea,” you reply. Bucky’s flesh hand gives your forearm an understanding squeeze.

“Good mission?” you ask tentatively, pressing your cheek into Steve’s palm as he glides it over the left side of your face.

“Yeah, doll,” Steve murmurs. Bucky hums in agreement.

“Tired?” you breathe, the fingers of your right hand threading between Bucky’s metal ones, where they rest on the couch cushions. He catches your eye and flashes you a small, appreciative smile.

“Yeah,” Steve answers, breaking off with a small yawn. Bucky scrunches up his nose and gives Steve a disapproving side-eye, a million words communicated through that single expression. You’ve learned that Bucky basically goes non-verbal after missions, choosing instead to communicate with touches and gestures. You might be lucky enough to get a hum or a grunt out of him, but there’ll be no actual words until he’s had a shower and some food, at least.

“Alright then,” you say, pushing away from them both — with no small amount of reluctance — and getting onto your feet. “Shower first, then food. Nap and sex after,” you tell them, as you gather your things into your arm and walk around to the back of the couch. You pause, then add, “The last two don’t necessarily have to be done in that order.”

Steve laughs tiredly, looping his arm around your waist when you pass by him, leaning some of his weight on you as you make your way over to the stairs. Bucky shakes his head in amusement at your comment, lips tugging into a tiny smirk. He goes to Steve’s other side, where his sore ribs are, and gently curls his metal arm around Steve’s slender waist, helping to support some of his weight. On any normal day, Steve would’ve protested, argued that he could make it on his own, thank you very much, but today, he’s happy enough to accept the gesture.

You can’t help but watch the two of them out of the corner of your eye as you slowly climb up the stairs, as if needing to reassure yourself that Steve and Bucky are really here. Knowing the two of them, the moment you get into the bedroom they’ll probably try and hustle you into the bed that you’ve made so nicely, despite your vehement protests.

You’re okay with that, though, you think, as you watch Bucky bite his lip suggestively, just as he takes Steve’s right hand in his own, walking backwards to lead you and Steve into the bedroom. Though this morning might have started off on the wrong foot, your boys are back and safe in your arms. This weekend might turn out to be a good one, after all.

**Author's Note:**

> Share this on [tumblr!](https://a-splash-of-stucky.tumblr.com/post/169266300070/by-morning-light-i/)


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